Page 65 of Echo: Burn
Willa's hand finds mine in the darkness. "Whatever happens next," she says quietly, "I'm with you."
I squeeze her hand. "Damn right you are."
The darkness presses in around us. My ribs throb where shrapnel cut through. Willa's breathing is steadier now, the atropine is doing its work. Odin's alert posture has finally relaxed—no more chemical signatures to detect.
Eight minutes until Stryker digs us out. Eight minutes trapped in a tunnel I collapsed to save our lives.
Worth it.
My comm crackles with static, then Stryker's voice cuts through: "Boss, we've got eyes on the entrance. Hostiles have withdrawn. We're coming in."
I close my eyes, allowing myself one moment of relief. Then I key the comm.
"Copy that. And Stryker? When we get back to base, we need to talk about what just happened here. Because the Committee just showed their hand."
Willa shifts beside me. I feel rather than see her looking at me in the darkness.
"They're scared," she says.
"Yeah." I test my weight, preparing to move when extraction arrives. "They are. Which means we're closer than they want us to be."
The sound of digging echoes down the tunnel. Stryker and Mercer working to reach us.
Time to finish this.
14
WILLA
Countdown: 72 Hours
The operations center feels too bright after hours in the dark.
I stumble through the door behind Kane, Stryker supporting my left side while Mercer clears the corridor behind us. Odin trots ahead, no longer alert, just exhausted like the rest of us. My legs want to give out. My head pounds where I cracked it against rock during the collapse. Every breath tastes like dust and chemicals.
But we're alive. That counts for something.
"Med bay," Kane orders, his voice rough. "Now."
"I'm fine," I start to argue.
"You've got a head wound bleeding through your hair and you're favoring your left ankle." His hand finds the small of my back, steadying me. "Med bay. Not negotiable."
For once, I don't argue. The adrenaline crash is hitting hard now that we're safe, and safe is a relative term when the Committee just tried to gas us.
Sarah meets us at the med bay entrance, already pulling supplies. "Sit," she orders, pointing to the exam table. "Both of you."
Kane helps me up onto the table, then leans against it beside me. His tactical vest hangs open, the right side dark with blood. The shrapnel wound I felt in the darkness looks worse in the light—a jagged cut across his ribs, still seeping.
"You first," I tell him.
"Ladies first."
"I'm a doctor. You're bleeding. Sit down and let me work."
Sarah watches our exchange with knowing eyes, then hands me a suture kit. "I'll prep the antiseptic. You've got steadier hands anyway."
I make Kane strip off the vest and shirt. The wound runs from his lowest rib almost to his hip—not deep enough to hit organs, but deep enough to need attention. He doesn't flinch when I clean it, just watches my face while I work.
